People Like You and Me
by benignmilitancy
Summary: I know this is going to sound really weird coming from me, but right now I'm scared of you. You just aren't the same. I think you know you aren't the same. That's the thing—you've been through it all before, but—but now you know it.  Now complete.
1. The Beginning of the End

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders.**

**Title: "People Like You and Me"**

**Rating: T**

**POV: Dally's POV, starting from Johnny's jumping. I took the liberty of adding a few scenes here and there. I cannot remember everything from the book, since I lost my home copy (NOOOO!), so I apologize in advance if some really nitpicky details are off. But I have a relatively good memory, so it shouldn't really be too big of a deal.**

**Summary: "I know this is going to sound really weird coming from me, but right now I'm scared of you. You just aren't the same. I think you know you aren't the same. That's the thing—you've been through it all before, but—but now you know it."**

**A/N: This was originally going to be one story, but it was just too long to post it all here. So I'm breaking it up into chapters. Review! **

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><p><em>God.<em>

That's all I can think when I see you. I look once and you're down on the grass.

You're not moving.

_God._

I know, somehow, that this is it for you. What makes me sick is that I couldn't have done anything to stop it. You were all alone. You must have been there for a while. Why? Why are you bleeding like that? What reason is there for all of this?

Steve tells you not to talk. Ponyboy just looks at me.

They turn you over in the grass and then I get a good look.

_God._

My heart is pounding so much I want to kill someone right now. I've got to get out of here.

My blood is boiling while yours is pouring out.

It's not looking good for either of us, kid.

* * *

><p>You're a tough kid—a good kid—so I guess this entire thing will resolve itself. But there's something different in your face, and it's not that scar you got. I know this is going to sound really weird coming from me, but right now I'm scared of you. You just aren't the same. I think you know you aren't the same. That's the thing—you've been through it all before, but—but now you know it.<p>

That scares the absolute shit out of me.

I'm sleeping when there's a quiet knock on the door.

"Ugh. Who is it?"

"It's Johnny," you say.

Damn. Oh, damn. Damn, damn, damn.

I groan in the pillows. Why now? I am so hung over it's not even funny. I have a system of perfect darkness here. If you open that door I am going to die.

"Come in," I say.

You walk in and don't seem to mind the darkness. You don't even ask why I've buried myself underneath a mountain of pillows. You must be getting pretty good at this stuff.

You shut the door behind you, sit down on the outermost corner of the bed and don't say anything for almost ten minutes. I don't forget you're there, but I might have if I didn't know you. Not even your clothes make a sound.

"John...'s getting late," I sniff. "You should, um, go home...or to Pony's."

"I don't wanna bother him," you say. "Not tonight."

I look up; there is a flash in your eyes.

"Dally," you say, almost too quietly...I don't like it.

"Johnny," I say. "What's wrong?"

You look at me and I finally realize something.

"Johnny...oh God."

"I don't—"

"No."

"I'm sorry Dally, really I am—"

"Johnny," I say. I'm starting to breathe a little faster. "Where is it?"

"—you've been a good friend and all—"

"Where is it, Johnny?"

"—I—I just hope you understand—"

"Johnny, I swear to God, if you don't tell me where it is—"

The dam bursts.

I hear something click, and a quiet, shaking sob.

"—I never wanted it to be like thi—"

"Put the fucking knife _down, Johnny_!" I scream. Lunging forward, I knock you over, and something glinting spills out from your front pocket. A switchblade. Black. It's almost too clean to be lying there. No fingerprints—you've been cleaning it all night. Clean...you want a clean break this time...and you've never even touched a blade before.

Who are you, kid? Just who are you tonight?

"No! Let me go!" you're screaming. "I have to die!"

_Oh God._

"Oh, Johnny," I say. It's all I can say. "Oh, Johnny. Oh, fuck, Johnny, fuck it all..."

You look at me, then hang your head, like you've been doing a lot lately.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

I hang on tight. I've never been so helpless in my whole fucking life. I'm pretty sure you can hear my heart pounding through my jacket. Damn it, I almost lost...I almost lost what I never even wanted to think about losing. But you're here, crying a mighty river to hell, soaking through my shirt, and now I've got to pull my shit through the fire...for you.

It's the first time I realize I can't love you more than you hate yourself. I can't change your life. What am I supposed to do? Whip your father's ass? Go after your mother? Jump every ring-wearing Soc who breathes on you? I wouldn't even think busting all their skulls and going straight to hell for it—but I'd just have to see one look on your face like the one you gave me a minute ago and I think I'd explode.

It takes hours before you calm down, sitting there in the silence. The sun is coming up a kind of orange-gold. I don't always know dawn from dusk, but for me, it doesn't really matter, because I'm usually too smashed to tell until it's afternoon anyway.

"Dally," you say finally.

"Shut up," I say. "Listen."

You listen.

"You hear that?"

A pause.

"...Yeah."

"That's my heart," I say. "Don't break it, you little fucker."

* * *

><p>The first time you stand up for yourself is not even six months after that, in the movie bleachers of all places.<p>

I snort. You get cut up and all of a sudden you think you're the shit. Hot damn. I like ya, kid, but you sorta have to know the waylay of things, y'know? Dally doesn't like these other little shits running around as it is.

I am so bored just sitting here. Why did I let you guys drag me along? Wait...I dragged _you _guys along. Damn. I must still be hung over.

Dumb flick, even dumber broads. Pony is grinning like an idiot at them, as always—oh shit, now you're catching it too, what the hell is _that_—and I'm already in a bad mood. I got busted for slashing Tim's tires today. Well, the motherfucker had it coming to him. I have no fucking clue why people are saying we're best buddies. I hate his guts. I don't care if he works or not; he had it fucking coming.

Oh. That redhead is a real spitfire. She's such a clever little pussy. W_hy not be chivalrous?_ I think, and offer her my Coke. _Here, kitty, kitty_—

Of course she dumps it on me, the bitch.

And then you tell me to leave her alone.

This day just keeps on getting better and better.

"What?" I say.

You and Pony look at me as if I'm gonna start whuppin' your asses in three seconds, which, really, I'm not, but you Okies are weird like that—you wouldn't know a New York bluff if it fell right on top of you.

Finally, I get up, grumbling. I can't talk to bimbos all day. Besides, I've got to take a leak—but I sure as hell ain't gonna tell you _that_.

I see Two-Bit sauntering down the road. We greet each other in the customary way: first I flip him off.

"Hey, fuck you, man!" I say.

"Same same, ass-hat!" he nods.

We're starting to close the gap between us.

"Greasy bitch-ass!"

"Filthy motherfucker!"

Now we gotta be quick.

"Jackass!"

"Delinquent!"

"Wino!"

"Hood!"

"Shithole!"

"Bastard!"

Then, suddenly, I stop. He stops too.

"Fuck—I didn't say Simon Says," I say.

He grins and starts walking again.

"Hey, grease!" I call out.

"What?" he says.

"Can you tag-team me for Pony and Johnny tonight?"

"Why? You gotta hot date?"

"Nah—I gotta take a leak on your front lawn."

"Oh, so it _is_ a hot date, then," he says, laughing like the hysterical drunk-ass he is, then flips me off in salutation as he runs on down the road.

I shake my head...I can always count on Two-Bit.

* * *

><p>"Jesus," I say. I fell on my side at Merril's and now it's starting to burn. "Je-<em>sus Christ, didn't anyone ever tell you you don't tie it like that?<em>"

I take the tourniquet away from Buck and rip it off of me, starting again.

"That's what you get for ridin' an ornery pony, Winston," Buck says. He grins so wide I want to punch his mouth in and make him wear his bottom lip like a hat.

"Hey," I murmur, raising my eyebrows, "here's a new idea—how about you shut the fuck up?"

"Then you don't get your money," he says, dangling a green slip between his fingers.

I snatch the fifty away from his hand.

"Ow."

"Looks like you don't know how to tie a tourniquet either," he smiles.

"You shitting me, Buck? I know how to tie a tourniquet out of somebody's intestines. I should know—I lived in goddamn New York City. They eat people like you for breakfast."

Grinning stupidly, as always, he leaves me alone. After he finally closes the door, I toss aside the tourniquet and try to sleep off this fucking three-day hangover.

* * *

><p>"Dally," Buck says about an hour later, shaking the bed. "Dally, come on, wake up—you got some visitors."<p>

"Tell 'em take a rain check," I mumble.

"Dally—"

I whip a pillow at the door, missing his head miserably. "Go _away!_"

"Fine," he says. "I'll tell Pony and John or whatever the hell their names are you're still asleep."

"Pony and John—o_h shit!_" I scream. "Wait! Tell 'em to wait!"

_Fuck! _I think as I trip and bang my head on the door slipping my pants on. Then, struggling with the fly, I don't look where I'm going and almost trip down the first flight of stairs. But I somehow pull it together and stick a weed in my mouth _just _as I round the corner. It was a trick I learned, like a law of physics or something—if you're a dorkwad early on, you turn cool at the last minute. I call it Dally's Conservation of Tuff.

I am such a dickweed. I love it.

"Yeah," I say, peering out into the night.

Whoa; I draw back a little. Your eyes are huge, and Ponyboy is sopping wet.

"What's up?" I say.

You and Pony look at each other.

"I...killed a Soc," you say.

You...killed a Soc?

You killed a Soc?

_You?_

"Good for you," I say.

That's when you turn white and start to fidget: "I'm sorry—I didn't wanna take you away from the party and all-"

Party? ...Party? What party? Curious to see a party, I glance behind me; bluegrass is blaring from the main room while ten thousand country hicks are whooping and swinging off the chandeliers. I turn back around and suck in the urge to sigh. If you think that's a party, kid, then you got yourself some real issues.

"I was in the bedroom," I say. "Geez, Pony, not like_ that_."

You guys follow me up the stairs.

"You'll die of pneumonia 'fore the cops ever get to you," I say, throwing one of Buck's shirts to Ponyboy.

Jesus. You killed a guy? Wait, no, not even a guy—a _Soc_? Are you guys fucking _crazy?_

_You _of all _people_?

* * *

><p><strong>So...eh? Yea? Nay? OK?<strong>


	2. If You Put Lipstick on a Pig

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Outsiders.**

**Title: "People Like You and Me"**

**Rating: T**

**POV: Dally's POV, starting from Johnny's jumping. I took the liberty of adding a few scenes here and there, with more to come...**

**A/N: This is the same as the first chapter, although it has a lot more "in-between" scenes. Review, please!  
><strong>

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><p>"A gun? Dally, I can't use this!" you say.<p>

Well, fuck, kid, you sure don't point it like tha—_you don't point it at me! That thing's loaded!_

Damn it all.

You killed a guy. I just can't get over it.

Je-_sus_..."I thought New York was the only place I'd get caught up in a murder rap."

You two stare at me, as always, so I sigh.

"You take the 3:15 to Windrixville," I say. "There's an abandoned Church a little ways over Jay Mountain. It's an old hideout my cousin had—go there. And you're gonna need money—here's a fifty I got from Buck; it's all I could get. It should last you about a week. The first thing you do when you get off the train is get some supplies. There's a general store down the road. Then after that, you don't so much as _stick your head out the door_. When it's all clear, I'll come find you. But the train is gonna go soon, so you gotta be quick and get off at the right stop."

I don't see you as you run off. I've never been a guy for much believin'. I've never gone to Church or anything like that, and I think God is a pretty sick guy for letting all the shit in this world happen, but in that moment I trust something a little bigger than me—I trust you to go safe in the darkness.

* * *

><p>I can't go after you right away because of—wait for it, you'll love this one—fucking car trouble.<p>

Imagine _that._

"Water leak," Steve says, closing the hood.

"How long?" I say.

"How much?" he says.

"Ha, ha—come on. I'm being serious, man."

"So am I," he says, and wipes off his hands.

Grumbling, I go inside, where Soda is delivering a monologue to Two-Bit.

"Darry is worryin' himself sick. He's working himself over—he keeps apologizing to Pony in his sleep. That is, when he does sleep," says Soda. He rubs at his face with a dirty towel. "Good _God._"

"Yuh-huh," says Two-Bit. "Hey, Dally. You seen Johnny anywhere?"

"Must still be with Pony," I say, knocking on his head with my fist. "Duh. Knock, knock, dumbass, anyone home?"

"Nope," he says almost blissfully.

"Where's Darry?"

"Still out."

"Why didn't you go with him?"

"He's a little...hysterical right now," says Two-Bit. "After...you know."

_Yeah,_ I think, _I know. More than is needed._

I turn to Soda. "What about you?"

Soda is just opening his mouth when there is a crash coming from the garage.

* * *

><p>You know Steve, kid. You know he's a male Cherry, just without the good looks. A real spitfire, right?<p>

"Hey, there, wanna polish, buddy?" he says, and hocks a good one right on their windshield.

Like I said...real _spit_fire.

The Soc that's sitting in the driver's seat gets out.

"Oh, how fun, another skull to crack," Steve says, smiling at the new arrival. "You wanna get it on in real sunlight, boyo? Got some real balls to bust?"

"Trash-talking grease," the Soc says, his lips curling into a toxic snarl, "my favorite kind of public enemy."

"That's public enemy Number One to you, motherfucker," Steve says.

So Steve is a big boy. You know that. He's got one of them pinned to the ground. But what he doesn't know—or maybe he forgets, who the hell knows—in the dark is that there are three more of them waiting for him in their car.

As for me—the garage door won't open. It's an ancient piece of shit and you gotta bang it like a drum sometimes to get it an inch out the threshold.

Another crash sounds.

"Is he alright?" Two-Bit says. "Who's in there?"

I'm pulling on the one end of the door when I hear that sickening click...black and clean.

"_For the love of God, Two-Bit! There's Socs in there! They locked the damn door!_" I scream. "_Get Soda!_"

* * *

><p>You know how a fair fight is fair: one on one. This one is...well, you know, the usual.<p>

Unfortunately.

"Wait...don't!" he says, banging his palm against the concrete.

"_Wait, don't!_" they mock, laughing, and hit Steve again upside the head with a wrench.

One of them jumps atop him. His head is split somewhere, and he's matted in blood, writhing with all his fury down on the ground. They have two of them kicking him in his side, while another one holds him down—

I look into the window and see Steve's face. His eyes are swollen, huge and black—

I see your face inside.

_God._

"Hey, bitch-faces."

They look up.

I have a silver crowbar slung across my shoulder.

"You have three seconds to get off of him."

They get up slowly, howling like animals at me. My jaws click shut. I can _smell_ them—they stink like rich rotting trash. No, wait, I take that back; that's offensive to trash. At least trash doesn't pretend it don't stink to high hell. Well, you know what they say, kid...if you put lipstick on a pig. "Look! The grease was mad enough to open the door and save his buddy from the bad guys...how sweet is that, George?"

"Very," says George.

"One," I say.

I slam the crowbar into George's face. He explodes in a puff of red.

His other three buddies suddenly stop laughing.

"Two."

I step in closer. They fall back into each other, flicking out their blades.

"G-God!" they shriek. Their eyes flash white and their veins start to stick out from their necks and throb. "You—y-you—! Stay the fuck away! You're fucking psycho, man! Absolute wackjo—"

"Three."

Not one of them is left conscious after that.

I toss the crowbar aside.

I don't want to turn around.

In the hallway, Soda, Two-Bit, and a couple of more people that work here are standing there staring at my back. Everyone's eyes are burning into the base of my skull, and I can feel them, hot and wide, pushing right through my brain like bullets.

"You can come in now," I say, even though no one seems to hear me. "But Steve's hurt...Soda."

Soda stares at me.

"Soda," I whisper. "Call an ambulance."

Nothing.

"Soda—did you hear me? I said call an ambulance."

He blinks and seems to snap a little out of it.

"Dally...?" he says. "Are you...?"

I sit down on a bench, put my head in my hands, and scream into my knees.

"Call. An ambulance. Now," I say.

* * *

><p>"That was the hospital. Those boys'll be alright, I guess," Darry says, hanging up the phone. "That was quick thinking making it look like they got in a scuffle with each other. But we could have all been arrested because of that." He turns to face me. "What the hell were you thinking, almost killing them like that?"<p>

I shrug. I was thinking the same thing I always think...how to get in my daily dose of whoop-ass. After all, every Soc counts double the points of a regular jackass.

"God _damn_," says Two-Bit, looking at his knees and shaking his head for the hundredth time. "The Socs were bad before, but now they're turning into real dickweeds."

"I'm not sure, but I think I heard some of them say they got some kinda blood feud going on. The newspapers are sayin' one of us killed one of them...in cold blood," says Soda. "Is that true?"

"I dunno about that, but I heard from a guy at the shop the other day that, a week ago, they started jumping each other. At night. Alone. So, he told me, one time they were gonna jump this random guy in the parking lot, right? Real hitch-and-ditch stuff. But they didn't even show up for days. Then, one night, _boom_, they slipped into the fucker's house while he was sleeping, tied him down to the bed, gagged him with a cloth, and just kept whaling on him with a baseball bat. Scary shit these days—they've gone absolutely shitty-shitty-bang-bang off the deep end. But that's their problem. I don't see what any of this has got to do with us. To be honest, I think they made up those stories just to have a fucking excuse to kill off the people they don't like. In any case, I don't like it. We gotta really watch our skins now, guys—some bad blood's definitely a-brewin'," Steve says. He's sitting in a chair with a perpetual migraine, utterly miserable whenever he sees bright light, so he sits near a window with the blinds drawn all the way down.

"Damn," says Darry. Getting up, he walks out the door, pulling on his coat even though it's almost ninety degrees outside. He's gone off to look for you and Pony again.

Soda stares after him. "Naw, man...it's...something else. You see what they did to Pony? I can't imagine what'd they done to him if we didn't all get there when we did. It's starting to make sense to me now...I mean, first it was Johnny, then Pony, and then you. Hell, now Dally—"

I look at him.

"Dally—"

Then he is quiet.

Then the others are quiet.

"Dally what?" I say.

"Nuthin'," he huffs, looking down too quickly.

"What?"

He says nothing, turning a slight shade of red.

"Soda."

I'm looking at the other two, who are looking at each other.

"What?"

Soda's trembling.

"Soda. Come on—"

"He's not telling you," Steve says sourly, shooting a glower at me. Shrugging, I roll my eyes and glance at Two-Bit, whose eyes narrow into two stone slits there in the light. His arms are locked together and he gives me a ghost of a shake of his head. Soda trembles so much he looks like he's going to blow up.

"_Lord Almighty_, will you guys lighten the _fuck_ up?" I say.

All I hear next is a cry of, _Fucking traitor! _andSteve flies out from the chair, spearing himself into my side. I fall over and he's trying to get his licks in before I shove him back into the chair and his head bounces onto the back of it. Then Two-Bit pulls me back and my right fist, red with someone's blood, whirls around with a solid response. Sodapop just sits there on the sofa with his head buried in his lap, neither helping them or me.

I've never been so disgusted in all of my life.

"Ha! _Ha!_ You think I'm a Soc? Me, a _Soc_?" I howl, pointing a thumb at my chest. "That's a motherfucking laugh and a half! What? What, bitches? You think I'm working for them? That I'm getting paid to tattle on you or some sick shit like that? You think I almost killed those fucking Socs with almost nothing but my own bare hands because they wouldn't obey my orders? Even after I busted open a steel garage door, swept in like fucking Superman and _saved_ Steve from getting gutted like a fish?—oh, wait, no, I almost forgot to tell you, by the way, I'm also in the Mafia, I'm actually a crime boss named Lorenzo Pietrocarlo who smuggles Colombian goods across the border, and I was sent here to whack you fuckers one by one—_what the hell are you_ _thinking?"_

I'm as huge as the sun, swelling hot inside that little house.

"_Look at me! Don't you turn away—look the hell at me! Do I look like—anything like—that—that trash? Huh? Then tell me to my face, don't just fricking sit there! Pull your fucking heads out of the sand! I didn't do that for me, I didn't do it for them, I didn't do it for Greasers or Socs, I didn't do it for East or West, and I sure as hell didn't do for you, you selfish bastards! I did that, all of that, for Johnny, you motherfuckers!_"

No one says anything.

Sodapop shivers. He does that a lot lately, especially when he's thinking. He says nothing, just looks down deep in his lap and holds his head in his hands. He looks tired, pathetically tired. Sometimes, now, he doesn't even change his clothes; he just collapses into bed and gets up the next morning wearing his DX get-up.

I go to the garage and sit all night in my busted car.

* * *

><p><em>Dear Kid: Hope you're doing alright. We're all right here in Tulsa. Hot and dry, though. <em>

_Who knows these days? Someday it might just rain again._

_Someday it might just be okay again.  
><em>

* * *

><p>"Steve," I say.<p>

"What?"

"When you and Soda gonna get my car done?"

"Um, excuse me, Mr. Obvious, but in case you hadn't fucking noticed already, I just got my head bust open two days ago," he replies. He lets out a groan of exasperation as his head hits the back of his chair. I rub at the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger; I accidentally ripped open his wound when I shoved him.

It's so hot and dry here and we're all so goddamn tired and miserable. I wish you guys are here, but I know you can't come home yet. You and Pony probably would have been in that corner over there, laughing at something in a book; and the rest of us motherfuckers would have seen that, and maybe then we would have gotten a little more fuck-ass tolerable.

"Fuck it, Dally," says Two-Bit, his voice the closest it's ever been to being serious. "What's got you itchin' so much?"

"It's my _car_, you fuckster," I say. "I don't need to explain nothing to you."

Soda sighs, since he knows none of this is getting any of us anywhere. He slowly pushes his weight on his wrists as he gets up. "Alright, alright, I'm goin', I'm goin'. I'll take you to the garage. Come on."

"I'm comin' too, y'all," says Two-Bit. He ruffles Steve's hair as he leaps over him, just barely missing getting clipped in the arm by Steve's teeth.

The garage door swings open with a moan. I hate it in here. Cars are shining sparkling clean while cobwebs hang off the wall in droves. It's dark and it reeks of female Soc, bubblegum, Pepsi, gasoline and burning sweat. _Damn, you gotta get some serious incense in here,_ Two-Bit coughs underneath his breath.

Soda cracks open the hood and peers inside. Two-Bit studies it closely. I fold my arms and try to look interested, but I might as well be looking at a fricking road map written in Chinese.

"Well, the leak isn't too bad," says Soda finally. "Not as bad as I thought it'd be."

"How long?"

"Usually with Steve, it's at most four hours. But he's down and I don't really specialize in fixing water leaks, so, um," he rubs his forehead with his palm, "I'd have to say about two days."

_Two days! Fuck that shit! _

I swear, even if the engine falls out, I'm slinging my shit to the wayside and walking all the fucking way to Windrixville. Yeah, that's worry. But it's worry that I won't get there in time. I have got to go. I—

"Soda!" Steve yells.

"What?"

"Get your ass out here!"

"You forget your keys or somethin'?"

"No—someone here's telling me they know Ponyboy and Johnny!"

Me and Two-Bit blink at each other—Soda's never ran so fast in his life.

"You," says Soda. It's the last thing I hear clearly, partly because I'm hiding in a garage with the famous Keith Matthews, the loudest drunk-ass motherfucker alive, and partly because the wind outside is starting to pick up.

Damn, kid, it's her—that red cat you and Pony like. She's standing with some dark-maned bitch clinging to her arm. They smack so hard of Soc, but obviously they tried to dress down for their visit to the West Side, since they're only wearing maybe two or three rings instead of the usual ten on each hand.

"Hello," smiles Cherry. "Yes, we..."

She smooths her skirt out.

For a minute there's nothing but the wind. Cherry tucks a strand of hair behind her ears and looks at—at—damn, what's her name—her friend, Maryann or Maria or Marcia or whoever the hell she is.

Cherry, Soda, Steve, Marilyn—they all start talking as if they knew each other all of their lives.

"I didn't know...would have..."

"...sorry, really, we didn't...our friend..."

"...ashamed...so sorry to...when I heard..."

"Yeah...yeah."

"It's pretty bad," I hear somebody say next.

Then, quietly, someone mentions you, and...a guy named...Bob...

...and nobody says nothing for forever.

_God, _I think._ What happened?_

When they start talking again, Steve and Soda are standing in front of the girls while me and Two-Bit are watching them through the gray square light of the garage window.

"God," I whisper.

"What?" says Two-Bit.

I nod towards Cherry. "It's that redheaded Soc. And she brought another bitch with her."

"Oh, you mean Pony and Johnnycake's great-grandmothers twice removed? Lemme see," he says, pushing me aside. "Hot damn!" he whoops. "They're as old as _ever!_"

I ignore him. "God, Two-Bit—what does she want?"

"I dunno. Go out and ask her," he says.

We look outside again. Soda and Steve are good-looking, and good with girls, so of course the Soc twins don't run away screaming bloody murder. Me and Two-Bit, though...they'd be swimming halfway across the Atlantic Ocean before we even looked at each other and said _Shit._

They're talking for an awfully long time. From their low voices I can hear they're serious about something.

"Move your head, Two-Bit, I can't see."

"Sorry."

Outside, they're all nodding their heads in some kind of agreement.

"...must be pissed," Steve is saying.

"I know," says Cherry. She has this look on her face as if she wants to say something else, but closes her mouth as Marylou goes on about some weird-ass rumble going on in Socland.

I turn around. "No fucking way I'm talking to her."

"Chicken," says Two-Bit.

I stop in my tracks. "What did you just say?"

"Chicken," he says, this time more slowly. "Pussyfoot chicken."

"Oh," I say. "They'll never hear your dying screams."

He looks at me.

I look at him.

Nobody moves.

"Kentucky Fried Chicken," he says. "Lily-liver chicken. Chicken of the Sea."

"You little piece of shi—are you smashed again?"

"You know me best," he says affectionately. "Bwocka-bwocka, chicken shit!"

I land a last warning drive right into his stomach just as the two Soc girls walk towards the garage with Steve and Soda.

"Aw, yeah. It's gang-banging time," says Two-Bit, cracking his knuckles and laughing his head off.

"That's no way to talk about ladies, you asshole," I say, smacking him upside the head. "The proper way to say it is: _Aw, yes, now it is time to gang-bang these two lovely female specimens_."

"I'm sorry, Dally. Please pardon my fucking French."

"Go fuck yourself."

"I would if I was ambidextrous," he says, clapping his hands. "Hey, hey, hey!"

I flip open my lighter and take a thoughtful drag.

"Farthest you'll ever go," I say, tapping my weed.

"Miles more than you, ass-hat."

"Okay. Stop."

"Nah—this is too much fun. Ass-hat."

I smile at him, fingering something in my back pocket.

"I'm serious. I have a chain that can whip your ass to pieces."

"Ooh, kinky!"

The door opens with a creak so low we can't hear it. Cherry walks into the garage just as he says this.

"Oh man, look at you—you're a fire hydrant!" howls Two-Bit.

* * *

><p>You'll never believe this, kid! Not in a million <em>fuckin' <em>years!

This is so rich.

"_You're_ gonna be a spy for _us?_" I laugh. "You?"

Cherry-Berry just stares at me blankly, her face burning as red as her hair. "I—"

"So, uh, what's your get-off?" says Two-Bit when his laughter dies down a little.

"What?" she says.

"What's your get-off in all of this?" he says, leaning against the hood of my car. "I mean, do you get a piece of West Side to take home with you after all the fallout clears, or what?"

Her eyes widen. She looks once at Marion, then stomps up to us defiantly, a real fire burning now in her face.

"Oh my _God_!" she huffs. "I cannot _believe_ you! Here I am, and all I want to do is help you, because I'm sick and tired of all this...this.._insanity_! All I want to do is put a stop to it all—all this, _Greaser! Soc! East! West!_ _Rich! Poor! Trash! Plastic! _It's completely and utterly sickening and every one of us should be ashamed of ourselves for it! Now I'm offering to help you, to at least_ try_ to mend that bridge, and all you do is—is—"

I stare at her once and she stops: "—is—"

"You know what?" I say. "Grease or Soc, spy or no spy—whatever. It don't affect me one bit. Do whatever you want. I don't care. But if you want to become best buddies or some tree-hugger shit like that—just forget it, girlie."

I start to walk away when—

"Wait! Dally!"

Of fucking _course..._and so the dramatic cutaway begins.

I sigh and turn around.

"What do you want?" I ask.

"I just want to talk to you," she says.

She looks at me, her arms folded tight across her white sweater.

She stares...I stare back at her...I see that her eyes are green.

...Bitch.

"Well? Start talking," I say.

"N—Never mind," she says, and walks off with Marlene in tow. "Forget it."

When she's finally out of sight, I walk over to a Ford Steve and Soda have been working on instead of my car. My forehead hits the truck with a definite crack. I bang it a couple more times against the metal to make sure it's real and that I'm not having some kind of twisted nightmare.

"Hey. You all right, buddy?" says Two-Bit.

_Oh Lord, Lord. Damn it all,_ I think, banging my head and hoping to kill all my brain cells in the process. I couldn't even take Sylvia...don't tell me_ this_ broad actually loves _me_...

...'cause I ain't got _that much fucking time...  
><em>

* * *

><p>Luckily, Soda manages to pull his shit together the next day, and I have my car fixed. I'm ready to go, but then I'm trapped at the last minute...<p>

By Darry.

Darry tracks me down and drags me across the whole damn neighborhood back to his place. He got off work early today. There's no one else in the house. Darry sits me down in a chair and won't let me leave—he's pacing the floor, pissed as _hell_—but I don't care. I ain't saying a word. And if he wants to dance, I can fucking take him any day, the crazy-ass motherfucker.

"You know," he keeps saying. "You know."

"Know what?" I say.

He doesn't say anything. He just walks back and slaps me. His palm whips into my face so fast I don't feel anything, yet I hear something crack. God _damn! _No wonder Ponyboy ran away from this psycho.

"Don't you play that game with me," he hisses. Grabbing my collar, he's breathing right in my face and I'm pretty sure my mouth is bleeding. "'Cause I can play far worse, buddy. You know. I know you know. Don't give me none of that shit. People are starting to talk. I've made myself physically sick staying up all night, every night, from that first night on, running a fine tooth-comb through the entire fucking Earth looking for those boys. You know I'm desperate. You know more than anyone that I can't call the police. And you know what I do to guys like you when I'm that desperate."

He blinks only once during that spiel; it was when he said _from that first night on._

"You know," he continues, "you know everything, Dally Winston, and you're gonna stay cemented to this chair until you tell me everything, even if it takes me all fucking night—I don't got nothing else to do."

I say nothing.

"Where are they?" he says.

I prop my elbow on the armrest, cup my chin in my hand and just look up at him through my eyebrows. He can't use anything against me if all it is is silence.

"Dallas," says Darry, his nostrils flaring. I really don't like Darry. I think he's got a giant screw wound just a little too tight up his ass, but he's still the only guy on the planet who can call me by my full name and get away with it. I ain't _that_ dumb. The guy does roofing for a living and can bench press three of me...I'll cover your ass, kid, but I ain't _that_ dumb.

"Tell me, Dallas," he says. "Did they do it?"

The clock in the room ticks between us.

"That's what I thought," he says.

His eyes narrow in a flash of black as he walks away.

* * *

><p>So Soda gave me this letter to give to sneak in to Ponyboy today. I wasn't really all too surprised; I knew he knew. Well, anyway, I'm pretty sure he didn't know how to spell half the words he wrote, but I still give him credit for trying. After all, the kid wrote it from his heart. He was real serious in telling me not to look at the letter, because he knows the first chance I get I'm gonna rip it open to see if he put any money in it. Soda has this pathetically long look on his face as he tells me this, so I don't do it.<p>

I only hope he didn't write a fricking Hallmark Card. I hope Pony doesn't break down or something when he reads it, because you're his buddy, and you'd break down too, and then we'd have a sickeningly sappy mess on our hands. Then where would we be?

I whistle the code at the door. I hear you guys scatter and whisper in there—man, you are just _not_ cut out for running from the law.

_Come on. It's Dally, you motherfuckers, _I think. _Ring, ring. Pick up the telephone._

You open the door first. Your eyes are huge. I know it's gratitude bouncing around in there, or maybe something else, and I'd definitely prefer it over the blank one you had that one night, but I don't really like this look on your face. You're acting like I'm Gabriel come to life.

"Here's a letter for you," I say, ruffling Pony's blond hair.

Wait..._blond?_ Oh, that's fucking rich. He looks like such a girl right now. But geez, I'd never have the balls to do that. Not in a million years. They could lock me up and do whatever they wanted, but nobody'd touch _my_ hair...I'd kill them with their own pair of scissors before they even had a chance to breathe on me.

"Who's it from?" says Pony, blinking. He looks tired. I'm trying so hard not to smile. Fuck, I'd be miserable too, if I looked like Shirley Temple.

"From the President," I say, "of the United States of America. Who do you think it's from?"

He picks it up and I think about plugging my ears for the waterworks. But he just reads it, folds it up and tucks it in his pocket. You look at me, scuffing your foot against a random rock. You guys look absolutely terrible.

"You're in the papers. They're looking for you."

No one says nothing for a while.

Hmm.

"You hungry?"

The both of you almost knock me over rushing out the door, screaming something about bologna. _Fuck_, I think—what did you two _do _while I was gone?

* * *

><p><strong>Only one or two more chapters to go.<strong>


	3. Silence

**A/N#1: I did add a scene from the movie.**

**A/N #2: I'm warning you right now, tread lightly. This chapter gets a bit...weird...with the extra scenes. You'll see. Anyway, any reviews at all are greatly appreciated. (P.S. Thank you for all your encouragement, Crowbar! =D Cookies for you!)**

* * *

><p>You don't even talk for ten minutes. I don't bother to tell you guys about Steve, or even the whole me blowing-up thing. There's no need for that much alarm, at least, I think, not yet...you're not outta the woods if you still see trees above you.<p>

I break the news to you about the spy, "that Soc, you know, Cherry What's-her-name," and you two gag some more. As if you weren't nearly gagging on your food seconds before.

"_Cherry?_"

"Yeah," I say a little quieter. I hope you don't talk about her. I don't want to think about her right now, because, as if God really wants to annoy me today, some little kids just came up to us: "Hey, mister."

I sink low in my seat and mumble the world's longest _Shit._

"Hey, mister. Hey. You got fifteen cents?"

Nothing.

"Mister. You have fifteen cents?"

_These two bottomless pits just drained me of all the money I had sucking down one hundred and seventy-two hamburgers. I ain't got no goddamn fifteen cents. Go away, you little fucksters. Leave us alone._

"No. Go away."

"But—"

"Get outta here! Go!"

The kids finally go away and I breathe a sigh of relief. "That was close."

I pull out something from the compartment.

"You have a _heater_? You _kill _people with heaters, Dally!" Pony shrieks.

"Shut up."

I start up the car and you're glued to your seats. Pony shuts up, but since he just shut his trap, now it's your turn to talk my ear off. I swear, I put you two together and you're worse than a pair of tag-teaming Socs. What's a guy gotta do to get a frigging break around here?

Then you say you want to turn yourself in. I almost fall over.

Do you _want_ me to have a heart attack? No fucking _way! _

"I have to turn myself in. We'll say it was self-defense. Pony won't get in any trouble, but if he stays here...you have to take me back," you say.

I yell at you. I don't really know what I'm saying, because now all I see in the rear-view mirror is your head, hanging down.

"Johnny," I say. _Dammit. "_You think my old man cares if I'm in prison, drunk or dead in the gutter?"

My old man—now there's a face I haven't thought about. Don't even remember his name. All I know is is that he had a young face and that he left my old lady for some blond dyke he met at church.

I was maybe five when it happened.

I can't remember any of their names. All I remember clearly—hang on, I'm gunning another red light—is having two sisters who were identical twins, 'cause at the time I thought they were aliens or something. Well, whadd'ya want? Twins are such freaks of nature. They do everything like each other. My sisters were so fucking creepy it made my skin crawl.

See, kid, we were put in a foster home after Mom died, and after that all three of us got separated from each other. Not that I'd give a rat's ass now. I'll try till I turn blue in the face, but I can't remember either one's fucking name. I'd probably spit on them if I saw them walking down the street.

Mom died not long after Dad left. She took a .38 revolver and shot herself right in the brain while we were away one morning, playing at the park. The babysitter almost had an aneurysm coming home, but I'll give credit to Mom that she was real smart about it.

She didn't let us see her. She shot herself in the fucking basement.

Most people are clumsy or on the fly when they do shit like that...but Mom...wasn't. It wasn't like in the movies, kid, where you see the woman shoot herself two seconds after the man leaves, and she falls flat on the bed while the kids are just standing there bawling their eyeballs out in the hallway. No way. She had called CPS and the foster home beforehand, and made sure she got it in writing that they'd take us in. She had been planning to kill herself since the minute Dad walked out.

Let me tell ya, kid, Mom was a real smart bitch. She didn't do it until eight months later, when she was sure Dad didn't want custody and we were almost safe.

Almost.

The family I went to was rich. I lived with them for about a year in uptown Brooklyn, and boy, were they real hardcore Bible thumpers. If there's anything worse than Bible thumpers, kid, it's Bible thumpers who're rich—they think poverty is the eighth deadly sin.

I was their bastard child. They despised the fact that Mom was a Lutheran who killed herself, so naturally they took it out on me. I won't say how. But it was enough to make me run away from that house thirty-two times. Yeah. You're hearing that right. Thirty-two. Lucky for me, the family was prominent in the area (Kids in the slums downtown get kidnapped and cut up to pieces every day, but God forbid_ their_ little ass-fucks get their own toes lost in a sandbox.) so the police dragged my ass back every single time and filed it on record. So, whenever you hear some motherfucks say shit about me in the parking lot, know this as coming straight from the horse's mouth: that's how I famously got arrested at the ripe old age of ten—the cops caught me sneaking out on trip number twelve.

Then one night, that was it. I strapped myself with nothing but two small boxes of shells and a loaded heater the dad kept in the trophy room. That's the heater Ponyboy's freaking out about, the one I have locked in the glove compartment now. Really ain't a heater to me anymore. Sentimental value's more like it. I kept it on me for years, with three bullets locked in the chamber at all times: one for Dad, one for my rich dad in Brooklyn, and one for me, just in case the other two don't finish what they start.

_Always gotta be extra-careful,_ my dad in Brooklyn always said. _Someday, some wino might break in and have his way with your daughter._

Now, I've seen some real messed-up things. Things I don't even remember wanting to remember... Mostly people getting killed in fucked-up ways. Trust me, kid. I've seen guys kicking on the floor trying to hold in their own guts. I've seen cops crying like little girls, begging. People can do the sickest, most fucked-up things imaginable. These things other people don't know, and the things they don't do...that's even sicker. All it is is silence, the kind of silence that fills a room after the gunshots face out. It's the brand of silence of someone who just doesn't want to know.

They don't know what I know. And what's worse, they don't even care that they don't know. Prisoners can hang themselves with just a piece of wire they take out of a bed-spring. Guys can kill other guys in their sleep with nothing but a sliver of glass someone forgets to pick up after they knock over a picture frame. You can choke to death drinking your own blood. That shit you see on the news, and what you don't always see, it's all real. It happens every single day. I know—I should be used to it. But that's why I came here. They're not nearly as sick here. What's considered bad here is absolutely fucking nothing compared to what they can do to you there.

I don't want you to have my eyes, Johnnycake. I don't want you to see what I've seen. I don't want you to have my ears. I don't want you to speak my words or think my thoughts. I don't want that kind of silence to touch you, ever.

That's all. 

* * *

><p>There's some black smoke hanging in the air—it's coming from the church. Then there's rattling like gunfire. Jesus—what's <em>in<em> there?

_God damn it!_ _...the gun._

"It was my light," I hear you say.

"You left a light in—"

But you and Pony are gone before I even pull over.

I hate this noise. The fire booms and these little kids keep crying their eye sockets out. You and Pony pretty much throw them out the window while I stand outside and catch them. It's kinda funny—fly, you little snot-nosed brats, spread your fucking wings and_ fly_—and scary. Now, don't let me catch you going around sayin' big bad Dally Winston said something was scary—I meant scary as in the whole thing is just so fucking _pathetic_. At least, technically, for you, when we get home. Man, are you gonna get hell. A new low for grease, y'know? I mean, little kids...how sappy can you get? Let them turn into mini crispies, that's what'd I say. But, rules or no rules, I know you're not like that. I just hope you'll be fucking safe.

I always knew you wanted to be a hero or some shit. It's something we all go through. But, for you, it lasted just a little bit longer. I'll admit it; you hung on, kid. You wanted to be a hero. You wanted to be a hero that time you stood in front of the entire street as your old man whipped your bare back with a two-by-four. You wanted to be a hero that time you took a jumping that scarred your face and almost broke you. You wanted to be a hero that time you tried to test yourself by the end of a clean, black blade with almost no one around. You wanted to be a hero that time you saved your buddy by destroying someone else.

Well, I got news for you. We can't always be heroes in the real world. At least, for the best of us, not all the time. Now is definitely not that time, but you just don't see that. You can't. That's why I love and hate you. You're already a fucking hero, Johnny Cade, but that's just not enough for you. Now you wanna be a dipshit with a death wish, billowing cape and all.

_Get out of there!_

Ponyboy comes out but you're still in there. He looks like he's out of it, just standing there staring at the fire. Doesn't he realize that the shirt on his back's gone up? I'm sorry, but what kind of idiot does it take to not even realize you're on fire like that? It's like, _Knock, knock, answer the door. Oh, who is it? It's Rick, Mrs. Jones. Can Tom come out to play? Why, yes! Yes, he can most certainly come out to play—WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? YOU'RE ON FUCKING FIRE, YOU DUMBASS!_

I try to take it off him, but it's blazing, so I take my arm and beat the flame out. Yeah—I'd wrestle the devil if I could.

Pony is down and you're still in there.

I was late once. I barely missed fucking up the second time. It's as if you're giving me one more chance. Come on, Johnnycake, I don't know why you test me like this. I'd do anything for ya—isn't that even enough?

The roof is collapsing. I look up—it doesn't matter what you're doing. You're doing what you think is right. Whatever the hell it is brewing behind those black eyes.

I bust open the window.

I won't be too late this time. 

* * *

><p>The next thing I see is a ceiling full of wires and a paramedic with an ugly face. Really, that joker's got some overbite to fix. <em>Hey you, you with the syringe, don't you touch me like that. Fucking tellin' me to cough, hey, how about you go fuck yourself up the ass with that five-mile long needle? God damn, that burns! Shit! People say they'll kill you with their bare hands—I'm gonna kill you with your own bare hands!<em>

"Good morning," smiles the jackass.

I say something I can't hear.

"Yes. The schoolchildren got out fine. A little scared, but they're alright."

"Fuck you, man. I dunna'mean them."

_Je_sus! I sound worse than Two-Bit after five shots of vodka on Saturday night.

The paramedic smiles. "Sounds like you're still out of it," he says.

"Shet. Cann strangle you wit' th' IV in two secounds flat."

"No one's strangling anybody here."

I sigh. I can't go anywhere and do anything but sit here and bear it. I'm not going to bust out if all I'm gonna do as soon as I hit the pavement is fall asleep.

"Was talkin' 'bout Pony an' Johnny," I say.

"Oh, _them_," he says, and right then I want to permanently wipe that look off his face, "okay. One kid has very severe burns across his back. A roof rafter collapsed on him. They have him in the first car because he's in need of immediate surgery. Another kid has a case of smoke inhalation. And you, sir, have burned your arm taking out that fire on your friend's back."

"Fuck m'arm. Which one's worser'off?" I say.

"I can't tell you that," he says, clipping another IV bag on.

"Johnny was...in there," I mumble. Then I snap awake for a minute. "Did Johnny get out okay?"

"What?"

"Johnny."

"Now, which one is Johnny?" he says.

I flip him off the best I can.

"Need t'see Johnn'...if you cann' tell 'em apar' already...they should fire your...your green-ass righ' now, you fuckin' sonova...bit..." is all I manage before blacking out. 

* * *

><p>I have no clue where I am after that. My arm isn't burned, as far as I can tell, but I can't see all too clearly; they dressed me in this weird black get-up.<p>

A long white box sits at the end of a hallway.

Church.

I'm in another church. They dropped me off at a church? How long was I out of i—?

I realize it's someone's funeral.

No.

No, that's not—I wasn't too late.

I _can't be!_

I run out the door and run into someone.

"There you are! They've been looking for you. Are you alright?"

A redhead is standing in the corner, dressed in black.

_God._

There's no way she'd be here if it were...she's a Soc. So this has to be that guy you killed, Bob with those rings or whatever. Well, it could be any Soc, really, 'cause they go all-out for those ones. Maybe one of ours finally went shitty-shitty-bang-bang off the deep end. Like Steve said...all in bad blood.

Unless she's an already sour apple turned bitter. God, a double agent...this air is making my hair stick straight up.

"Cherry. What the hell you doing here?" I say, when what I really ask her is, _what the hell am I doing here?_

"What?" she says.

"What kinda spy are you?" I say. "Forget it—you know where can I find Ponyboy and Johnny? They were hurt. They dove right into a fire saving some little kids."

She looks down at her feet.

"Where are Ponyboy and Johnny?"

Then she looks up.

"_Cherry!_"

It's not Cherry—her eyes are blue.

"Who's Cherry?" she says.

"Damn," I scratch my head. "I coulda sworn it was you."

"What?"

"Um," I say. "Sorry. You looked like someone I knew."

I'm about to leave when another girl that looks exactly like her approaches us. Wearing a long black dress, she stands beside the girl with the blue eyes who otherwise looks like Cherry, and whispers something in her ear.

I'm confused as fuck.

"You look just like h—who are you?"

"Sarah," says the girl with blue eyes, seeming a little bit embarrassed when she looks at me. "Don't you remember me?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You're not acting like yourself today. I guess that's to be expected, though," she shrugs.

"Look, you have five seconds to tell me just what the hell's going on—"

"Oh, my! What's the matter with you today? Is your memory failing again?" the other says, looking surprised. The next thing she says as if a baby could understand it: "I'm Savannah." After that, she points to her clone: "That's Sarah."

I say nothing.

"Are you all right?"

I say nothing for almost two minutes.

"Maybe you should sit down for a bit."

_It's them. _

_After all. _

_These years._

"Oh good God, don't tell me the fuzz gave _you_ bitches my records," I say. I throw up my hands and start towards the door. "Fuck this shit—I'll fucking find them myself! I don't need you! Now leave me the hell alone!"

"Fred, I heard you down the hall—you okay?" someone passing by us asks.

"His memory," says Sarah.

"Ah."

"How the hell would you know? You don't even know me," I spit, waving them away. "And the motherfucking name is D—"

Wait.

Fred—that was the old man's name.

Fred Winston.

_Probably dead_, I think. Dad always looked young—these people got me mistaken for him.

I look down the aisle. "Hey—who's in the casket?"

The girls look at each other, hanging their heads miserably.

"I'm sorry, Father," says Savannah. "Dallas was a lost soul."

...What?

...you mean to tell me_ I_ died?

I'm dead.

I'm dead.

I'm dead and I'm lying in that casket.

I want to laugh my guts out, but oh, wait, they're dead too. This is fucking hilarious. I'm dead. I am _dead_. I died in a_ fire_. Two-Bit'd be rollin' over at my dead ass. Shit, he's probably painting the words "Kiss me to see if I'm _really_ dead" on my forehead right now. So, God, tell me...what's next for old Dally? You gonna burn me some more with that fucking fire and brimstone, or what?

I turn around and smile at them. No fucking way, you bitches, don't you two look at me like that. I'm still alive. This is a sick fucking joke. I'm outta here. Obviously I'm not dead because I'm not a ghost; people are still looking at me. Everyone can still see me and I'm still—

Wait a minute.

_Father?_

I grab a silver candlestick hanging over the ledge and look at myself.

I'm not dead.

I'm...

I'm _Dad._

* * *

><p>The candlestick cracks the ground as it falls.<p>

I'm Dad.

I'm Dad.

I'm Dad.

I'm Dad.

I'm _Dad!_

_MotherFUCKER!_

My hand balls up into the tightest fist I've ever made, and, like that Soc George exploding on the crowbar, I pour all of my force into myself.

"Father!" the girls scream, clasping their hands over the perfect little O's their mouths make.

My nose drips down my upper lip. I don't feel a damn thing. Like always. "What the _hell did I do_—?"

"Father, trust me, I know. I know you're in pain...but Dallas is dead, and that is that," Savannah says. "He died in a fire that started in an old abandoned church. We cannot change that."

I glare at her through the red haze in my eyes.

"You must still be in shock over the whole thing," whispers Sarah. "It's natural. Denial is only the second stage of grief, Father."

"_Why_ are you calling me that?" I hiss.

"Dad—you're doing his service today," says Savannah quietly.

Then, looking down, I want to open my mouth and let out a scream, realizing that the girls weren't trying to be formal tightwads; the old man was actually a _reverend_. 

* * *

><p>Candles burn; people murmur; priests hobble.<p>

And there is nothing I can do.

There is nothing I can do. I died and somehow got stuck in Dad's body. And to rub salt in it, he's a man of God now—the definition of a fuckin' hypocrite. Damn it—no one goes to heaven or hell. That's all just a bunch of bullshit they use to scare you into paying your taxes. Your eternal soul just gets stuck inside another fucker for the rest of time, just like that dead battery you need to replace but stow away in a broken appliance instead. _For safekeeping_, I grimace, wishing I could make Dad feel it on his face.

There is nothing I can do, but things aren't adding up here. Where's Johnny and Pony? Did they get out okay? Or are they walking around as Steve and Soda now?

I walk up to the podium. The aisles swell around me and there are people I both know and don't know swarming into the little room. They're filling up seats one by one. I can only see bits of them at a time—Darry's eyes turned flat, Soda's hands wrung together, Two-Bit's smile set straight.

I make Dad's blood pound a little faster in his veins. I feel like a blind prisoner being taken among a screaming mob to the executioner's block, or a deaf man looking up to the sound of a firing squad. They don't know who I am—past, present, or, if I ever somehow get out of this, future—and the minute I open my mouth they'll know. _Dallas Winston. What could I say about him? He was my son and a motherfucker._

I look down to the first person sitting in the row.

_As I walk through the valley  
><em>_of the shadow of death,_

Mom is sitting in the very front pew, her hands clasped together and her eyes half closed. Half her skull is showing and her brain slowly drips out of it. Her eyes lift to look at me.

They're red.

She smiles when she sees me.

_I fear no evil, for Thou Art with me._

This can't be real.

I can't say a thing.

"I—"

Every little thing is magnified one thousand times, to the point where everything is swollen huge and horrible. I can even hear people's breath swing open and shut like valves.

I was crazy once—now I'm a damned madman.

Someone's silver cigarette butt falls through the air, and all I see is the smoke it makes as it trails through the air.

"I—"

Then time resumes, and everything goes too fast. Smoke starts curling up the walls. The walls are dripping down on themselves like candles.

"I—"

I can't open my mouth to say anything. Melting, the walls burst into fire. Everyone sits perfectly still, waiting for me to speak. No one notices the blood-red fires blazing overhead. _Run away, you dipshits! _I think as the roof starts to cave in under black smoke.

I run up to my casket, which is engulfed in flames. I rip it open, hoping to jump back into my own body. If I'm dead, I'm going to _stay_ dead, eternal nothing or not—I'm not living only to die a second time.

I scream when I see myself.

It's not me who's lying in there.

* * *

><p>"Breathe! For Chrissakes, just <em>breathe!<em>" someone standing over me says. "Okay, he's not responding. I'm gonna need fifty more milligrams—you're hyperventilating, kid—just calm down."

"_Johnny! What the fuck happened? Mom—Dad—what is this? Who the hell are you people—why is this fucking needle stuck in my neck!_"

"Calm down," says the doctor. "Breathe. Sit back. Nothing's happened to you. You just had a hallucination brought on by smoke inhalation. That dark-haired kid you call Johnny is in the other room, but he's in far worse shape than you are. He just got out of surgery. You keep waking up screaming about him, and it's so loud it's waking _him_ up. Now my nurses are coming in every goddamn hour to tell me the poor kid won't stop crying. Calm _down._" 

* * *

><p>To be continued.<p>

**A/N: OK. Listen up, dudes and dudettes. I am seriously getting a stomachache trying to feel all of Dally's emotions...nah, not really, just coming up with clever ways to swear is what's really gettin' me...XD Gonna take a break now. I might not update for just a (little!) while. Constructive criticism is always appreciated, and cookies shall henceforth freely be given to all whom durst review... (Uh-oh, it must be bad...I'm starting to speak in Old English now. O.o)**


	4. The Blue Lightning

_A/N : Reviewer cookie time! YAY!_

_**NaiveLove: **Thanks so much. I'm glad you liked that scene. Cookies for you!_

_**Die an Outsider: **Well, here's the next to last chapter...I think. Dally is a hard character to write for. I enjoy doing "fill-in-the-blank" scenes though, because he has such a hard character to pinpoint. It's difficult to look at him and say, "So THAT'S why he does XYZ in such-and-such a way." Cookies for you!_

_**I'mmaBeatYouWithaCrowbar:** XD "It's like, Knock, knock, answer the door. Oh, who is it? It's Rick, Mrs. Jones. Can Tom come out to play? Why, yes! Yes, he can most certainly come out to play—WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? YOU'RE ON FUCKING FIRE, YOU DUMBASS!" I can imagine him saying that. Though it'd be kinda OOC. Thanks for all your reviews. Cookies for you!_

_Free cookies to all reviewers! Now let's get going...shall we?_

* * *

><p>They've left me in here for days, kid. I can't take it anymore. I'm like a wild animal. I have to get outta here before they trap me for good.<p>

The last nurse comes in. I glare at her. She glares back at me, jerking the needle in a little bit rougher than usual, but I don't fucking care. My arm feels like I've been sleeping on it for days. It's dead weight.

Fuck. I wish I hadn't said the word _dead. _Freaks me right out. They say I'm having panic attacks now.

What the hell is that? That's for insane motherfuckers. What do they know? It feels like the fucking walls come down, or all of a sudden I could just drop dead, go out, vanish into thin air, all gone. The world just zooms out a million miles into outer space. It's like...I'm going insane and I can't do a damn thing about it. Losing my freakin' mind just staring at the walls.

There is a hell, kid. It's called being stuck in a hospital.

All these needles are making a fucking pin cushion outta my arm. And the machines won't stop buzzing. Can't fucking sleep. Last night, I stayed up. There's no end to that sentence. That's it. No _I stayed up drinking until three in the morning_ bullshit; no. I stayed up. Which means there ain't no rest for the wicked. Couldn't go to fucking sleep with these damn nurses who kept coming in and out. I swear, they're all the same bitch, just with different fucking faces—

"Go AWAY!" I scream.

"Dally," says Two-Bit.

_Shit._

I still don't turn around.

"Blade," I say.

Two-Bit's a good man. He just flicks it out and hands it over, no shit ensuing. He loves that blade more than his own sister—and he once split his buddy's head open for hitting on her in the parking lot.

Ponyboy and Two-Bit stand beside my bed and talk about the rumble, the bad blood, the Socs—the whole thing makes my blood boil over. I don't care what you did. It's their fucking fault and they deserve whatever they get.

I turn Two-Bit's blade over. It's black—just like yours.

Black.

Blacker than your eyes.

Blacker than these walls at night.

Blacker than your pupils when you don't stop beating someone who's begging.

Blacker than hot blood.

I flick Two-Bit's blade open and closed. Right now, it's the only thing that keeps me from going off the edge. I think I understand you now, kid. It's clean—makes no noise, no mess. People bleed; blades don't. People hurt; blades just cut. That's all they know how to do. I'm like that. I know something's gonna happen. I'll do it. It's rising in my fucking blood.

The blade opens and snaps shut:_ open or closed, Grease or Soc, life or death, sane or no sane._ It's a choice for me._ Here or there? Now or later?_

But, then again, I've never really had a choice...you didn't either.

Them and us, kid. I've got to decide. I've got to fight. There's no question about that. But with all the allegiance and backstabbing, all what the bullshit really comes down to is, will I fight for people like them, with people like them, against people like them...or people like you and me?

Like I said, there's no choice—there's only a matter of time.

It's only a matter of time.

They won't let me leave...and I don't know if I'm gonna kill somebody here or there, or now or later. I don't know if I'm gonna snap and stab a greaser walking down the street. I don't know if I'm gonna be righteous grease and rightly lop off a bloodthirsty Soc's head.

At two in the morning I finally close Two-Bit's blade and tuck it under my head. The orderlies don't even notice it there when I wake up from insomnia.

There's nothing I can choose; it will happen.

It's only a matter of time.

* * *

><p><em>I wasn't having a good time when I first got to Tulsa. The first thing I did was got so smashed I almost couldn't see—I swiped a keg from a store. Of course, for our favorite fourteen-year-old hero Dally the Dumbass, the keg I swiped just happened to belong to a guy with a tattoo of a flaming Celtic cross on his chest.<em>

_I looked up._

_The guy smiled at me._

"_You like that?" he said. _

"_Motherfucker," I greeted him, and with that left the keg still hanging in the air._

_My first day in Oklahoma, I somehow managed to get five Hell's Angels riding on my ass. _

_Yeah._

_Good times._

_I had dropped it because it was too hard to carry and run my drunk ass off at the same time. Looking back, it didn't really matter either way—either way I was sufficiently sloshed. _

_That was when I decided to cut across the kid's yard and jump his back fence. _

_The fence was way too high to jump—I don't know what the hell I was thinking, but it don't take a goddamn long-distance runner to figure out that a five foot six kid can't tackle twelve feet of solid wood leaping from a yard away—and I kicked in my own knee scrambling over. I crashed backwards into the yard because my jacket pulled me back. I didn't realize it got caught on the hurdle over. Nor did I realize I could have just taken said jacket off and jump again. That must have been some wicked liquid I had. _

_It was going to rain any minute. I thought I'd get sober up once I got good and wet. _

_I just ripped my sleeve free when something dark blotted out the sun._

"_Turn around, hood."_

_There was an old guy standing there with a '62 Beretta 20-gauge shotgun slung over his shoulder. Even before he raised it I could see he wasn't a real good aim: his grip kept shaking too much. His bluff, I thought. He's smashed to bits._

_Shit, I thought, realizing I wasn't exactly Sandra Dee either. If you're drunk and the guy who's holdin' a 20-gauge to your head is just as smashed, does that make you even more dead or about the same?_

_I heard a twig snap and saw someone creep out from behind him. When my gaze shifted, he waved his hands away from him—he didn't want me giving him away. I didn't know how a little guy like that was gonna take down two hundred pounds of ugly, plus a Beretta 20-gauge, but, figuring I had nothing to lose—what with five Hell's Angels on me anyway—I nearly got my head blasted in half as a little kid with black hair came out from behind the old man and smashed a half-empty bottle over his head. _

_The bottle exploded, along with half a pint of Jack Daniel's. The old man went down hard in a puff of yellow whiskey. He didn't even bleed. Just went flat-fuck down._

"_God damn," I said._

"_I'm sorry, Dad," the kid whispered. "I spilled it."_

_He started picking up the pieces of glass lying around his dad while I stared at him. _

"_Well? What are you waiting for? Go!" he said._

"_Why'd you do that?" I said._

"_I don't know," he said. Looking down at the old man, he winced."I—I never done that before. Oh, God, he's gonna kill me when he wakes up!"_

"_Not my problem," I said, and started to turn away._

"_Wait!"_

"_First you tell me to run, now you want me to wait?"_

_The kid almost rammed into my back when I stopped._

"_Don't follow me," I said, "you little fucker."_

_Then he looked at me._

_I swear, he just looked at me. Nothing else._

"_Don't you look at me like that," I said._

"_Like what?"_

"_Like that."_

"_I don't see anything," he said, looking behind him._

"_That's because it's your own face, you dumbshi..." I cut that thought short when he looked at me again. "Uh...forget it. Just forget it. You can't see it."  
><em>

"_Okay," he said."What's your name, anyway?"_

_I said nothing._

"_Mister. What's your name?"_

_I hate being called Mister, so I grunted: "Dallas."_

"_Hi. I'm Johnny," the kid said, then added, "you sure gotta funny accent."_

"_So do you," I said in a most cheerful tone. _

"_Well, I live here. We all talk like this. Even Ponyboy and his two brothers down the street, they're real tuff and they talk just like—"_

_I snorted right then. Ponyboy?_

"_Great. Okies with hippie names," I muttered, flicking out my lighter. "Fuckin' whoop-de-doo."_

"_It's his real name," he protested. "He says it says so on his birth certificate. I just call him Pony, though, 'cause he doesn't like it when people say his full name. And his brother Sodapop, their dad named him a kinda weird name too. We call him Soda. The only one a' them that don't have a weird name is Darry, but he's the oldest, so their dad musta not have thought of a name for him."_

_My head throbbed and I had only one suggestion...The Shut the Fuck Up Kid._

"_And then there's Two-Bit, who lives around the corner there. His real name is Keith, but we call him Two-Bit. He's super funny. And then there's Steve, Soda's buddy. They work at the gas station on the weekends. And then there's me. I'm the youngest except for Pony. They like to call me Johnnycake."_

"_Yeah," I said. "Well, that's a mighty fine story, but I—"_

"_You gotta nickname?"_

"_I go by the alias Mr. Clean," I said._

"_Really?"_

_I almost smacked myself in the face: "No, not really! Ever hear of sarcasm?"_

"_What's sarcasm?" he said._

"_Oh, good Lord. Forget it." _

"_Wait! Don't go, Dallas, I didn't mean to—where're you from?"_

"_First of all, it's Dally—"_

"_Okay."_

"—_and I'm from New York." I stopped. "Well, I was. Whatever. Fuck, it don't matter anyway...I'm stuck here and there's nothing to do in this dump."_

"_You got family here?"_

"_No." At least, I didn't think so._

"_How'd you get here?"_

"_Got busted by the fuzz one day," I said. "Went fucking AWOL on the dumb pigs. Hitchhiked till I got tired...I was gonna go to some hicktown in north California where my cousin lives. Stopped halfway, I guess, 'cause I heard I had another cousin here. Shit," I said, then put out my light on the sidewalk, "he's probably not even real, the motherfucker."_

"_You probably needed a break from all that runnin'," he said._

_What a weird-ass kid. I had been arrested over twenty times, was drunk off my rocker and a fugitive from the law...and he wasn't fazed a bit. Complete overhead pass. _

_"Who knows?" I said. _

"_If your cousin here ain't real, why don't you just go live with your other cousin?" he said._

"_I would but I can't get any more rides. It's the face," I said. "I got that criminal look on me. People think I'll cut them up with a spoon as soon as I get in their car. "_

"_Wait—can a spoon really cut someone up?"_

"_How should I know?"_

"_You just busted my fence," he said, as if I was stupid. "By yourself."_

"_So?"_

"_So..." He looked at the great big drunken heap lying on the ground."So...I need someone like you to help me with him."_

_I squinted._ "_Help you?"_

"_You know...keep him away from me," he said._

"_You've got to be kidding me."_

"_No, I—"_

"_I ain't no goddamn bodyguard, kid," I said. "Screw off."_

"_Look...can you just help me? Just this once—I won't ask you to do it again. Please?" _

"_So now you're in trouble with your old man? Congratulations," I said. "You have fucked yourself just like every other little kid on the face of the Earth. Now leave me alone."_

_He stood there, shaking._

"_But I'm too small for 'im," he said, his voice breaking. Jesus Christ, talk about dramatic."When he wakes up he beats me with whatever's lying around. Most of the time it's a board or somethin' like that. Please, Dally—I was good all day, but I'm really in for it now—I gotta get away before he catches me, so maybe if you could—just for a minute—wait, don't go, please—he's waking up!"_

_A rustling. Then,"Boy. Get over here."_

_He didn't even bother to turn around. _

"_Boy. You have no time," said the old man._

"_Dad—"_

"_Now. And you call me sir. Got it?"_

"_Yes," the kid said. "Sir."_

_The old man got up and walked in front of him. The kid was as frozen as ice. _

"_Were you running around with that kid?" he said._

"_No."_

"_No what?"_

"_No, sir," the kid said. "I was talking to him."_

"_Talking, eh?" he said. "What'd he say?"_

"_He's—"_

"_Did he tell you to clip this over your old man's head? Don't you shake your head at me. Are you gonna run away, just like you always do? Whadd'ya gonna do, son? The cops'll cap your ass dead before you ever make it down the street. Don't you know you can kill someone by hitting them on the back of the head like that?"_

_The kid shook his head._

"_'Course you didn't. You don't know nothing. Think I heard you sayin' something about running away before I woke up." He nodded towards me. "Then you tried to get that hood over there to finish the job."_

"_Dad, I didn't want to—"_

"_You didn't want to what? You didn't want to get another whippin' today? Were you thinking you coulda killed me? Killed your good old dad just for the hell of it? No one ever told you t' respect your elders?"_

"_No! I'm telling you, I didn't do it."_

"_So he did it, then," he said. "He's the one whose brains I should make look like a Pollock painting right now."_

_He aimed at me and my hand went inside my pocket for my heater; but then the kid stepped right in front of the old man._

"_No, Dad! I...I did it."_

_The old man looked down._

"_I mean, I didn't mean to do it," the kid said, "but you were—"_

"_Look, you little bastard." He shifted his arm and broke open the barrel to show the kid the chamber, then lifted it back and snapped it shut. "I got one fuckin' shot left in his thing." _

"_Dad," he said. "Don't."_

"_Who's it gonna be: you or him?"_

_A small "don't" is all that ran through my ears._

_I whipped out my heater. I couldn't think. All I could think of was...heat. That's why they call 'em heaters...no thoughts. No feelings. Just you and the heat._

_I fired off a shot, aiming at his chest but ended up clipping his shoulder. It was enough. He fell in a great huge heap, and a split second later I heard a scream from a woman standing in the doorway._

"_Mom!" the kid screamed._

_She stared at him, mouth gaping; and he stepped back as if he was the one who'd been shot._

_Flickers of doors slammed open. Lights all along the side of the neighborhood woke up to the sound of the shot. People began buzzing in the air like flies._

_I took him and ran._

* * *

><p><em>There were four bullets left in the chamber. I tore the covering off with my teeth. I cussed as I accidentally bit my tongue and jammed in another clip with red fingers.<em>

"_Jesus," I said. "You weren't kidding about him."_

_The kid hung his head down low. He couldn't have been much younger than me. He looked young though, being so small. His eyes were black and half-closed. He was breathing hard; I think I saw his forehead glisten somewhere beneath his dark hair._

"_Mom," he said."Don't cry, Mom."_

"_Kid—"_

_He stood up from the tree stump he'd been sitting on._

"_Don't call me kid!" he screamed. "Leave me alone!"_

"_If you'll just listen to me—"_

"_You hurt Dad. I hurt Dad. Mom was crying. If I go home now, they'll kill me...that's what they wanted all along. But if it makes 'em happy, I guess I'll go home then. So you just get away from me, Dally from New York, you hear? Let me go home."_

"_What makes you think you're going back home?"_

"_He's my Dad...I hit him on the head to stun him a little. I did it 'cause I didn't want him to hurt you...but you should have just left me there," he said."You don't even like me. Why'd you do it?"_

_I almost ripped out a chunk of my hair._

"_Jesus Christ!" I screamed. "That spineless wino you call your 'dad' was gonna kill you with a fucking 20-gauge! You're his son! Do you even know how many fucked-up things I've—I mean, you're just a fucking little kid! What if I just let you—"_

_He lifted his head—his face was flat, his cheeks were dry and white, but his eyes were black and shining. He wasn't a proud kid; he just couldn't get rid of it. No—he couldn't drop it, get rid of it, do something to let it go, just close his eyes and let it out; he kept them locked in tight and never once blinked._

_That was why I..._

_I had been looking at my own face._

"_Is that all I am," said Johnny, "just a little kid?"_

_I said nothing._

"_I don't care," he said finally, and sat down on the ground with his head in his lap. _

_Right then there was a flash of blue flying over our heads. It came out of nowhere and it was way too close. I'd seen lightning strike skyscrapers before, but I only ever remember jumping at this one; this lightning came straight from the sky and struck down a barn. No one—no Greaser, no Soc, not even the oldest of 'em—was ever sure whose barn that was. It wasn't far from the edge of the West Side, on the two-way street where East and West get divided by the Adams intersection, built on a little plot of land they had there right before they got all the new development housing. _

_The barn collapsed on itself._

_I jumped but the ki...Johnny...didn't budge. Didn't wince. Didn't make a sound. Didn't even look up. It was the weirdest thing I'd ever seen. He looked like he would blow up but he didn't. He just sat there, perfectly still in the mud, staring at the grass._

_I watched him sit down...well, he didn't sit so much as sink. It looked like he fell into some quicksand, he just kept sinking lower and lower. I almost thought he was trying to bury himself._

_He didn't say anything, just sat there staring at the ground. _

_I looked up._

_It had finally started to rain._

* * *

><p>When I walk into your room, I feel like there's nothing in there but you, broken and tired. You're asleep, like you're supposed to be when you're not hearing me scream.<p>

You wake up and I don't even hear you. Your eyes pop open.

"_Gone with the Wind_," you say.

I set the book down.

"Who got you this?" I say.

"Two-Bit. That's the book Pony was readin' to me at the church."

I nod.

"...I heard you the other day," you say. "You must have been scared."

Usually I'd pop someone in the mouth for telling me I was scared. But it's true.

"Yeah," I say. "I was scared."

I sit down in the chair beside you.

It shuffles on the floor as I drag it over.

"I'm not gonna die if you breathe on me, Dally," you say.

I fold my arms and pretend to look out the window.

"Hey," you whisper. "Can I tell you something?"

I shrug.

"That church," you say. "In Windrixville—it was real pretty out there. I wish you'da seen it. All silver mist in the morning, nothing but quiet. Where there's no greasers, no Socs, just people. People, Dally."

"Bunch of rednecks, more like it," I mutter.

"We can try to say we're somethin' we are or we aren't, but it doesn't matter because all we are is just people."

I say nothing.

"Dally."

"Yeah."

"You think Mom—?"

"No."

"But maybe she—?"

"No, Johnnycake. You know that."

"I was just hoping—"

"I know. But you know too. We can't do anything about it."

"You mean _you _can't," you say.

"Johnny."

"I didn't want her to, but she did it anyway. I told the nurse not to let her in but she still came in, Dally."

Your voice grows smaller with every word. "She came in and told me all about how I was good for nothing...how much better off she and the ol' man will be now."

"Fuck them," I say. _Fuck them both._

"But they're my mom and dad, Dally," you say. "That's the thing. They're supposed to love me, and care about me, like how Pony got his brothers after their mom and dad's accident...They're not dead like they are. I mean, I go in that house at night and no one's there. Mom and Dad are sitting in the house, but they're not really there, y'know? And I start to thinkin' maybe I'm not really there too.

"I don't know what's wrong. I walk in, walk out, and nobody notices. It's like being stuck in the Twilight Zone or somethin'. They're wax statues. They come to life only to give me a beating. Well, Dad does, anyway...but what Mom did...it was the first time she even noticed me in months. Geez, Dally—what kind of kid makes his mom forget about him for months on end?

"Mom was supposed to be here for me. But I saw the nurses look at me as they came in with her, and their eyes were real flat...and I realized something.

"All this time, Dally, all this time, it wasn't them.

"It was me. It was me...I...I just never wanted to believe it.

"And as she's going on and on, I'm sitting here thinking, just thinking..._Mom_, _after all these years,_ _you and Dad_..._you're still my mom, and he's still my old man_..._just tell me, Mom, let me know_..._what the hell did I do wrong?_"

You swear. You swear for the first time.

I hang my head.

_God._

"Johnny," I say.

"Dally," you say. "When she left, I'm just sitting here thinking—thinking—"

You can't finish the sentence.

"No, Johnny. It isn't true. Don't you dare fucking say it is."

You look up at me, looking tired. _Too tired,_ I think.

"—thinking—"

"Don't you...don't you," is all I can say, shaking my head. "Don't you..._goddammit._"

"—thinking maybe I should have done it after all."

* * *

><p>"How can you say that?" I say. "How the <em>hell<em> can you say that?"

You look up at me. You try to smile but you can't do it right.

"Dally...there's been something I..." You blink. "I..."

"You what?"

"Nothing," you say. "Forget it. It's... it's dumb."

You turn away to stare out the window, where, outside, the sun is setting. Orange bars poke through the window blinds and land right on your bed. It must be warm where you are. You're falling asleep, but there's something you want to be awake to say to me. Just say it. I don't care. Just tell me. You can't hide yourself completely; from here your eyes are shining, filled with those black tears again. _Don't, kid. Don't. It doesn't matter anymore. Just let it out._

There's something I want to say too, so I guess I understand. I don't know how to say it. It's hard in my throat and I feel like I'm choking on myself.

Then you sigh.

"They're having the...the rumble tonight," you murmur, staring at the window blinds. "I want to see Pony."

"Pony?"

"I want...to see Ponyboy," you say. "Before..."

"Johnny—"

"Dally...can you...please...just go get Pony."

You close your eyes.

* * *

><p>The rumble already began, kid. I don't even realize it until it's almost over. That doesn't matter—where in the <em>hell<em> is Ponyboy?

All the pretty little Socs are getting all their pretty little clothes dirty, the fucking little candy-asses. I'd show them how a real motherfucker fights, but I have far more important things to do.

I finally find him and crack some fuckers' skulls on the way there.

"It's Johnny," I say to Pony, dragging him to the car.

* * *

><p><em>To be continued.<em>

_A/N: Dally seems a little emo to me today...O.o Dost thou agree'st?_


	5. Sometimes It's Okay To

**_A/N #1: Reviewer Cookie Time!_**

**_I'mmaBeatYouWithaCrowbar: Haha, yes, the nurses; I think Dally was in a slightly bad mood last chapter. How many "fucks" were in that...? I think they should build a special wordcount toolbar just for cussing. XD Thanks for your other comments; I thought I had made Dally and Johnny too weird, y'know? Well, COOKIES FOR YOU anyway, my faithful reviewer!_**

**_Die an Outsider: Hey, thanks so much for sticking with it even when it wasn't good. I'll have to rewrite those chapters or something. COOKIES FOR YOU! And, also, are you REALLY sure you don't want to read this chapter? Pretty please? *does the super Johnny-eyed face* Super Johnny Please?_**

**_A/N #2: Cookies to all reviewers!_**

**_A/N #3: I thought the song below was Dally-esque, so I had to include it here.  
><em>_It's the last chappie, y'all! ...I am so sad. But that also means I get more sleep. Hmm. Sleeping  
><em>**_**or fanfic writing? I am such a teenager...I can't decide. Well, no, not really,  
>FANFIC WRITING PLEASE! <strong>__**XD**_

* * *

><p>"<em>A jail cell is freedom from the pain in my home.<br>__Hatred passed on, passed on, and passed on.  
><em>_A world of violent rage,  
><em>_But it's one that I can recognize,  
><em>_Having never seen the color of my father's eyes.  
><em>_Yes, I dwell in hell, but it's a hell that I can grip.  
><em>_I tried to grip my family,  
><em>_But I slipped._

_To escape from the pain, in an existence mundane,  
><em>_I got a nine, a sign, a set, and now  
><em>_I got a name!_

_Read my writing on the wall!  
><em>_No one's here to catch me when I fall!  
><em>_Death is on my side...  
><em>_Suicide._

_Read my writing on the wall!  
><em>_No one's here to catch me when I fall!  
><em>_If ignorance is bliss,  
><em>_then knock the smile off my face!"_

"Settle for Nothing" © Rage Against the Machine, 1992

* * *

><p>Before I get Pony, I—<p>

_"Johnny!"_

—I storm back in that room madder than hell.

"_Johnny!_"

You're still asleep.

"_Johnny!" _

Your eyes open a little and you see me standing there.

_"Wake the hell up!"_

"Uhh," you say, almost with a smile on your face. My eyes are going to pop right out of their sockets. How dare you, you little piece of shit? How _dare_ you?

"I overheard a nurse down the hall..." Okay, Winston. Have to stay alive. Gotta fucking_ breathe_. "You didn't tell me you were—"

"Dying?" you say. "I am."

"_Fuck you!_" I say.

You fold your wrists under the blanket, speaking the next few words as if you're telling me you and Pony went out to catch a movie last night:"Dally...I am. I can't help it if it is what it is."

We look at each other for a minute.

"Oh, I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't realize you wanted to die."

"That's not what I sa—"

"No, no. I think you have to hear this. Richest fuckin' thing I ever heard, " I say, flicking out my lighter. "You wanted to die all this time. But it wasn't enough. You wanted to take everything from me first. So it was all a great big bluff. Your little own twisted game, huh, just giving old Dally his licks for life? I told you you get tough like me and nuthin' can touch you. Yeah, well, I guess I wasn't tough where it counted." I get up in your face and whisper the rest. "Real fucked-up, kid. That's the most fucked-up thing anyone's ever done to me. So congratulations, you win the award for the greatest fucked-up scheme on the face of the earth. Now go to hell."

You wince.

"How can you say all that, Dally? You're my friend. I'd—"

"Don't you dare sit there acting all wounded—you lied to me!" I scream. "Just tell me the goddamn truth! Jesus Christ, just tell me the fucking _truth_ for once!"

"Dally, I am telling y—"

"It's true, isn't it?"

"Will you just listen to me for a minute? Not everything is about you, you know!"

"Of course not—_I_ gave _you_ everything, you little fuck!"

A nurse comes running in and I flick out Two-Bit's blade. It snaps out in an instant and in that instant she's gone. No bitch is gonna get in my way. Not tonight. She lets out a scream higher than holy heaven and runs back out.

I close the door.

"Oh my God," you say. "Oh my God."

"What?" I say. "You scared of me?"

"No, I—"

"You what?"

You lower your head.

"I'm scared for you," you say.

* * *

><p>That's the one thing I wish you didn't say. You could have said nothing. You could have gotten angry.<p>

But you said_ I'm scared for you. _

What do I do? I wish I could say something right now, make up some clever Two-Bit limerick to wash it down the drain, get it off my back...but the truth is, I'm scared for me too, and I don't know why.

Now we break even.

Any place but here. Any time but now.

"I saved those kids because I thought that was what you'd do," you say. "I don't know, I—I thought if I saved them from the fire, I could be like you; I could maybe put killing that kid behind me. But I'm not you, Dally. I can't put it behind me. Ever. The truth is I killed that boy and he's not coming back...just like I won't. What comes around, right?"

I feel like my stomach can sink lower than hell.

"No," I say, "not what comes around, you little fucker."

You hold in your breath.

"I broke my promise, okay?...I'm a little fucker. I'm an idiot. Fine," you say. "Just don't...just don't call me names anymore."

It's gone completely dark outside. The white lights flicker in the room and you can't even hold your eyes up anymore.

"When I was little," you start, looking down somewhere on the blanket covering your wrists, "all the other kids would call me all sorts of names. Even Pony did, for a while...but one day he saw me fall from a tree and break my finger—" That almost-smile passes your face again as you twist a part of your little finger to show me you aren't double-jointed after all. "—and I think he sorta saw I wasn't just that dumb kid...I was...I was a kid. I fell out the tree because I was looking at a bird that made its nest up there.

"That's what you did. You were drunk, but you helped me that day the lightning struck that barn. Dad was gonna kill me. You know...you know, maybe all those years I did deserve all those whippings from my old man. Maybe I am dumb. I couldn't even read that book on the stand. Pony did. But Dally, I...I don't care. I know people's hearts real good and that's all that matters.

"There's still lots good in the world, Dally, you just don't know it yet."

"I better go get Pony," I say.

"Dally," you say.

I turn around.

"Come here."

I can think of no one as I cross the room. People die all the time.

The wind is blowing. A branch taps the window and it's free. No one can tell it what to do.

No one.

And all of a sudden, everything falls apart. We're not alone in this room, kid—there are two rows of people flashing beside us, a sea of people I've remembered and forgotten just as easily: Pony, Soda, Darry, Two-Bit, Steve; even that ring-wearing Soc you killed, my Dad, Fred, and your Dad, drunk and shot and smirking. And on the other side are Cherry, Marcia, Sylvia, Sarah, Savannah, and my Mom...

Everything and everyone is so fucking broken and I don't even see it until—

"It's okay," you say.

You don't touch me; you think I'm more fragile than you are. You're right—I'm trying to make sure you breathe. It was the way Mom finally died. I had set my head down on her stomach and she couldn't breathe.

I can't—not now.

"It's okay," you repeat.

_No, it's not,_ I think. _It's never been okay, has it?_

Not now.

"Dally..."

Not now.

"Sometimes..."

Not now.

"...it's..."

Now.

Now it's my turn to fall apart. I can't do anything but put my head face down in the sheet, shaking and screaming; it's just not right. And you sit there on the bed, like you did in the mud, and watch me as I do it. It's fucking horrible. Even that nurse who I threatened to cut up with Two-Bit's blade and her pink-clad entourage back away when they see me.

"...sometimes it's okay to," you say when it ends.

And I nod.

* * *

><p><em>That night with the freak lightning...later that night, I remember only little bits after that...it was raining. The last of the neighborhood lights had died out. <em>

"_What the hell are you doing?" I screamed. _

_His hand shook over the barrel grip, which hung heavy over his black forehead._

"_When I said help me with him," Johnny said, his face as wet as his eyes, "I meant you kill me for him."_

* * *

><p>Ponyboy must be as tired as I am. His head is cut up, bleeding all over the seat. He is banged like a fucking drum and he says nothing to me, staring out at the road; Two-Bit mentioned something in passing that he popped five aspirins right down the drain today. Shit, kid—he's joining our club already.<p>

Luckily, it's not too much of a stretch for him to act sick when a goddamn cop pulls us over. If it were any other place, any other time, I would grin. In fact, I'd laugh my ass off. I'd blissfully flip people off in the street as I followed the blazing blue cop lights all the way to the hospital, slapped Pony on the back and told 'im to sober up...'cause the fuckin' fuzzies wouldn't have got nothin' on Dallas Winston.

But today isn't that day...and Dallas isn't that Dally.

* * *

><p><em>The thunder rolled as I stared at him.<em>

"_No," I said._

"_Dally—"_

"_No. I'm not doing it. Put the heater down."_

"_I got no choice, Dally," he said. "We both have to."_

_Wait—both?_

_He aimed the gun at me._

"_Wh—"_

_I can hardly hear him over the white thunder above our heads._

"_Don't you see? We got no place to go," he said. "You and me. People like you and me, we got...we got..."_

_That was it._

"_Fuck it all." _

_I knocked the .45 right out of his grip._

* * *

><p>Walking into that room full of silence, it's the first time I realize you were burned...in a fire. It's the first time I realize...that book sitting on the stand has a piece of paper tucked in it. The whole room swells with all of these empty things, so I stand by the door. I can't reach you anymore...you're a million miles away.<p>

Ponyboy leans in closer to you. He's almost out of his coma, and he almost seems worried looking at you. But he's weird; sometimes he never seems worried about nothing, or else he worries too much.

I hear you whisper something: "Stay gold."

Then the machines hiss once, and you're gone.

...you...slipped out.

You're somewhere in the night now.

* * *

><p>You didn't say anything to me. It was all for Ponyboy.<p>

My insides are on fire.

_Don't you leave me here! _I scream inside my head, although it comes out as a slow wail. I pound my knuckles straight into the wall. My heart is pounding so fast I can't feel the pain. Something isn't right. I am fucking broken...but I'm still here.

_...Still here._

I walk out of the room, not looking at all at Pony.

I don't know what I'm going to do, kid.

But I know exactly what to do.

* * *

><p><em>There was something I wanted to tell you. I lied about Mom. About how she really died, I mean...I thought you wouldn't want to know. <em>

_It was Dad's fault for making Mom do it, but for years—especially during the hitchhike from New York, when I had time to think—I fumed because the twins were afraid of a fucking spider._

_Sarah and Savannah sent me to the basement with a baseball bat to go kill a spider that was down there. Even at five years old, I didn't know what it was with girls and spiders."Man's work," they said, to which I held my head up, looked them straight in the eye and gallantly said, "The shit it ain't," and didn't so much go as was thrown down the stairs. They didn't even bother to turn on the light, the little chickenshits; they just shut the door and down I went. I almost broke my neck tumbling down—lucky for me, though, the trip was on the last step._

_I don't remember the bang being loud. It made no noise—a silencer never does—but I could feel it shake the air around me. A thump hitting the stone floor echoed in the basement. Then it was quiet again in the dark, except for a sigh. _

_Her voice sounded as if she was underwater._

"_Mom?" _

"_Dallas," she said. "Is that you?"_

"_Um," I said. "Sarah and Savannah—they sent me down here to kill a spider. Did you kill it already?"_

"_Oh, Dallas," was all she could say for a minute. "Oh, Dallas." _

_I didn't know what I was saying:"What's wrong, Mom? Are you afraid of the dark?"_

"_No—leave the light off."_

"_Where are you?"_

"_I'm..." She sighed. "I'm over here."_

"_Are you okay?"_

"_I don't know," she said._

_Her eyes were bright red, gleaming in the dark. She couldn't see me. She had shot the part of her brain that took her sight right with it. I walked across the room to an empty corner, where she laid along the side of some boxes filled with ashes. _

_Photo albums—she had burned every last one of them._

"_I'm scared, Dallas," she said. _

_I'd never heard that before in my life._

"_Hold my hand." _

_I put the bat down and patted the floor until I found her hand. _

"_Don't cry," I said._

"_I'm not crying," she said._

_I didn't realize those weren't tears._

"_Mom," I said. "What's wrong?"_

_Mom smiled at me in the dark. It was so silent there in the basement I heard the muscles in her face twitch._

"_I hurt myself, Dallas," she whispered. "I didn't want to know Dad didn't love me. So I hurt myself for it."_

"_M—"_

"_That doesn't matter. What matters is that you and your sisters are the only things I love. You're my heart. I love you all so much it hurts me. But now I...I hurt you," she said. "Sometimes people hurt the people they...they love the most." _

_I said nothing, setting my head down on her stomach, which was rising and falling._

"_Do you understand what I'm telling you?" _

"_I don't know," I said._

"_Dallas," she said. "You have to hurt me now." _

_She trembled._

"_Please know I never wanted to make you do this."_

_She trembled and her hand was in mine—_

"_Mom—"_

"_I love you, Dally."_

_She pressed down on the finger that was nearest the trigger._

* * *

><p>"Give me the money."<p>

He just stares at the barrel, not hearing a damn thing.

"Give me the money."

Nothing.

I slam the barrel into his nose and spray myself with his blood: "_Hurry the hell up!_"

He hurries.

The people at the grocery store hide behind whatever they can. From there, they stare at me like animals, like goddamned cows at the fucking slaughterhouse. They herd together with their eyes blank, afraid and stupid. I don't even think they realize they're gonna die.

People. That's why I hate them. They're absolutely stupid. Like a deck of cards—when one falls, so will the others. The whole house comes crashing down.

They say they love you. What do they know? What do they know? I'll tell you what they know—nothing. This is what a .45 says straight through those dull, stupid eyes: _You think you know but you don't._ _You know nothing. You are disgusting, every last one of you. You are all fucking rotting from the inside out. Now die._

I hear something in my head. A little voice, almost too little...

"_I love you, Dally..."_

I blink.

"_..sometimes it's okay to."_

_Damn._

_I love you_—that's what a kid will say to get his girlfriend to fuck him. That's what a husband will say before he busts open the closet door with a Louisville Slugger. That's what all we miserable motherfuckers will say to each other just to make ourselves not feel like the shit we really are.

It's dumb, kid, but it's what I say over and over, inside of me: _I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you..._ it's pounding inside of me just like my heartbeat.

No more lies. No more-

People say I let you follow me around because you were some dark puppy that reminded me of some perfectly innocent version of myself, that is, right before I became _broken and wayward _or some shit like that. Let me tell you right now, kid, you don't remind me of myself. Not one bit. I'm a fucking lunatic. No. You remind me more of Mom. Now she was a bitch. She was an idiot. She was too proud to admit Dad didn't love her. But it's like you said—she knew people's hearts and that's what mattered. I thought I could understand it...but after all this time I still don't. I'm not you. I just don't work that way.

"_I love you, Dally...sometimes it's okay to." _

I've gotta get out of here. Someone's already called the cops. I can hear sirens rising somewhere in the distance, coming uptown. I haven't got much time—

Darry.

I don't know why his face is popping up in my head right now. They say the weirdest things come to you when you're in danger. Darry...that crazy fucker almost killed me. But he's always home after dark, waiting for Soda or Pony to come home. I guess he reminds me of what home is or something. But I also know he's just gonna be there to pick up the telephone.

"Hello?" says Darry.

"Um."

"Dally?"

"...the cops are after me," I say. "I held up a store. They're coming for me."

A pause, then: "Oh, God."

"You gotta get out here."

"We're coming."

_Click._

I never held it enough to ya, Johnnycake, but when you were there, you were there. You stayed with me. Somehow. I really can't explain it...you and me, kid, you and me...we were always on our own, weren't we? The nature of the game.

The cops are here. _It's too late_. It was always too late.

They're telling me to turn myself in. I don't feel any fear now. I can't feel anything, really, just that I feel like a crazy person as I smile at them and pull out my empty gun. Damn it, my hand is shaking. I can't even pull the fucking trigger. All I can see is Mom's hand over mine, and her red empty eyes.

I know this is how my life is supposed to end. It's as if I knew the script beforehand. It could have come at any time, in any place, just like this: surrounded by an army of pigs, their badges flashing gold underneath some dusty old streetlight as their bullets rip through me and I crumple in the street. I already knew it all. I'm not God, but I already knew it, cut, shot, and directed, every last scene, down to the last detail.

For most people, it's how...but for me, it was always when.

But_ you_...damn, I never expected you, kid. That's what makes it painf...no. I could have died without feeling a fucking thing in the world. But you...damn you.

I think about it again, and then it's not so bad.

_I love you—_it goes both ways. Cycle of life or some shit—it's all true. Dad didn't love Mom, so Mom didn't love herself. She loved only me and I loved only you.

"_...sometimes it's okay to." _

The last thing I hear is some screaming—they're finally here.

_Don't come closer. You're too late. You are too fucking late_.

I hear them screaming—_No! He's just a kid!_—and then there are more only more bullets to kill off their noise.

I smile. They must think I'm crazy. They probably think you're crazy, too...but, someday, when everybody pulls their fat out of the fire, they might just start to understand those people like you and me.

* * *

><p><strong>End.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>AN: 'Tis not the greatest story in the world, I know...but I would like to know what you thought of it.**


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